


Saints & Sinners

by icantwritegood



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Tinsworth - Fandom
Genre: Murder Mystery, i'm definitely gonna use stuff from it once or twice, ricky is an american FBI guy, they just dont really get along but cmon it's fun, this one's set in ireland, tinsley is irish, you might spot bits of Acedia scenery throughout it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29810691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood
Summary: The body of Alice Murphy-Jones, an Irish-American woman, is found in the waters of the Powerscourt Estate.Tinsley, a private detective in the long-time employment of the Murphy-Jones family, is hired to figure out what happened to her. The arrival of a quiet but easily-angered FBI agent provides him with an unfamiliar challenge, and it can be hard to tread carefully when the floor is made of hot coals.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> playlist ofc (with some irish singers! - not hozier)
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1YYESpwRlsltyPEhyWI52z?si=239d8cfd96344a3f

The road was narrow and quiet. The grass was mowed to unnerving perfection, fresh green velvet, and the horses stood picturesque beneath the old sycamores. Tinsley drummed his hands on the steering wheel, singing at the top of his lungs, _Everybody hits you with this feee-eee-eeeling, nobody seems to understand, oh you stop, you look, you’re searching for the meee-eee-eeeaning of love... Wasting your life awaaay..._

He silenced himself at the whirring sound that was growing invasively loud. The helicopter passed overhead, lower than would be normal, tilted towards the hotel. Placing the end of his cigarette between his lips, he took a final hard drag before flicking it out the window. It sputtered out on the damp tarmac. He rolled the window up. The helicopter blinked in and out of existence between the trees, hovering over the hotel. In there was the big-shot FBI agent, fresh in from the US of A. 

‘Guy couldn’t just drive?’ muttered Tinsley, before reaching over and switching the radio off.

He could just picture the agent stepping out of the helicopter, jacket fluttering wildly in the wind from its blades, those big yellow initials stamped across the back for all to see, like in all the movies. Probably a gun on his belt and another under his arm, and another down his trousers. They could be fond of their weapons over there.

Tinsley took the turn off Eagle Valley towards the hotel, following the Garda cars ahead; two of them, their yellow and blue patches glaring in the otherwise natural colour scheme of the land. Tinsley sucked air in through his teeth. He should have brought his own dusty Toyota for a wash, but this had led to that and he hadn’t found the time.

The hotel was a large white Palladian building, but it was nonetheless hidden behind the wall of dense greenery. It had a main building and two wings that spread out either side to curve towards the considerable 50-acre manicured gardens beyond. These 50 acres sat small amidst the rest of the 1000-acre estate, comprised of mountains and hillsides and forests. It was the perfect place to go for a wander and never come back, especially on the grim winter days that had dominated the last month.

Tinsley parked his car in the first spot he found, stepping out and shutting the door behind him. He could see Banjo and Holly with the two other Gardaí they had brought, faces Tinsley didn’t know. All of them wore their navy-blue jumpers and white shirts, over them their dark rain jackets, and on their heads their navy-blue hats with the little gold sigil on the front. He went over, nodding a hello and getting hello’s nodded back at him.

‘Couldn’t meet at the station, no?’ he asked, drawing a cigarette from his box and tapping it against the lid. ‘Far enough drive out here.’

Banjo shook his head, readjusting his little round glasses in front of his little round eyes. ‘No sir-ee. This FBI man wanted to get straight to it. Orders were to meet here.’

‘Orders? You’re under his jurisdiction?’

‘Well, um, I don’t actually know. This is all... unfamiliar territory to me.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t forget to stand your ground,’ said Tinsley, rubbing at a scratch on the window of Banjo’s car. ‘You know how these Yanks can be. Coming in, throwing their weight around, then taking off without paying for the damage.’

‘That is their foreign policy, isn’t it,’ muttered Holly, rocking back on her heels, hands clasped at her lower back. She took a moment to fix her hat on her grey-streaked head, squinting at the sky. ‘Rain’s coming in. It’s close. Look at the Sugar Loaf.’

Banjo glanced in the mountain’s direction. ‘Huh? Where is it?’

‘Exactly.’

Tinsley’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He stepped away from the congregation and peeked at the caller ID. With a deep breath, he answered. ‘Hey, Michael. How are you doing?’

Michael Murphy-Jones, the father of the victim, sounded as tired and worn-out as would be expected. Every few words seemed to end in a weary sigh, and the breaks between sentences were just longer than a few breaths and just shorter than a quick forty-winks.

‘So-so. You know how it is yourself. How are things at the hotel?’

‘Just arrived. Haven’t met the agent yet. Get this - he came in on a helicopter.’

‘Feck off.’

‘Not a word of a lie.’

A half-hearted laugh. ‘Look, Tinsley. He can do what he has to do, along with the rest of them, but I have my faith in you to find out what happened to her. You know that.’

Tinsley laughed, giving the back tyres of the Garda car a few kicks. ‘Your paycheques say enough in that regard, Michael.’

‘Yeah, well, keep giving results and you’ll keep getting your pay.’

‘Will do.’ He saw the Gardaí were beginning to filter towards the hotel. ‘Here, I have to go. I’ll keep you updated.’

‘Hey, hey, wait. I got you a room at the hotel for the duration of the investigation. It’s on my card. Meals and all.’

Tinsley closed his eyes, rubbing at the centre of his forehead. ‘Christ, Michael, you didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine in some B&B nearby.’

‘No, Tinsley, I well owe you it by now. It’s in my interests to keep you rested and alert, don’t you think?’

 _Like a prize racehorse in a stall._ ‘Sure is.’ He fiddled with his unlit cigarette. ‘I’ll keep you updated, alright?’

After saying their goodbyes, he hung up and took off towards the hotel. The cigarette was returned to its packet. There was no waiting around today. He took off at a light jog in order to catch up with the Gardaí, gravel crunching underfoot.

‘We’re going to head on up to the room,’ said Holly, holding open the door for him. ‘The agent wants to meet you first, in McGills. Just to get a first-hand account of how you found her and so on and so forth.’

‘Right, I can do that.’ He took in the foyer, the cosy luxury, plush couches and velvet throws, dark wood shined better than his shoes. The lamps were soft and golden through their stitched-cloth shades. ‘Whereabouts is the pub?’

‘Here, I’ll take you.’

Holly nodded at Banjo to indicate she’d follow him up in a minute before heading the opposite way. A few guests were lurking on the mezzanine, trying not to appear as nosy as they were. The hotel staff behind the front desk watched them but kept their distance, obviously under orders to speak only when spoken to. It wouldn't matter, in the long run. They would all need to be interviewed.

‘His name’s Ricardo Goldsworth,' said Holly. 'Straight in from O’Hare. Apparently Alice Murphy-Jones had been living with her mother in the States, flew in here to see her father for a month or so.’

‘But never made it.’

‘No, never made it.’

‘But why do the Americans feel the need to get involved?’

‘Oh, you know how they are with their Homeland Security and their Department of This and That. They can run amok wherever they feel like it. The entire planet is under their jurisdiction.’

‘We’d be able to get up on our high horses if we didn’t have their great big military jets sitting pretty on the runways at Shannon,’ muttered Tinsley, spying the pub at the end of the hall.

The blackboard set outside had _CLOSED_ written on it in white chalk, but the door was open a crack. He put his eye to it.

The agent sat at one of the high tables, his FBI windbreaker in a bunch on the chair beside him. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, lines just beginning to appear between his brows and beside his eyes but his skin still smooth and youthful otherwise. His hair was dark and curly and his eyes were black, beady like a rat’s, with long silken lashes that any woman would have killed for. His eyebrows were thick and set in a glare, his full-lipped mouth that of someone who enjoyed arguing, pulled into a slight grimace as if vaguely displeased with just about everything. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his arms folded on the table. His forearms were lightly haired and sinewy, the muscle of his upper arms and shoulders pressing hard against the fabric of his blue shirt. His fingers were fidgeting.

Tinsley turned away from the gap. ‘He looks like a dick.’

‘Come on, Tinsley. You can’t make your mind up now. You haven’t even talked to the guy.’

‘I can tell. Intuition.’

‘Ha. Feck off with your “intuition”.’ She put her hand on the stained glass window of the door. ‘Just give him a chance.’

‘Fine.’ He raised his hand between their faces, index finger pointed upward. ‘Just the one.’

‘Grand. In you go.’

She pushed open the door and Tinsley went into the bar. The door swished shut behind him. 

It smelled like every old pub smelled in Ireland. Dark wood reigned supreme, lending the room the necessary murk, and the floor creaked heartily under each step. One of the lights was blinking and shivering, and Tinsley could see a dead fly or two trapped in the frosted glass. A janitor was setting up a ladder beneath it, his belt heavy with rattling tools. The sound of chopping and slicing came from the kitchen.

The agent had a troubled look on his face and an empty white coffee cup to his left. He watched Tinsley coming over as if the act of approaching him was an insult in itself. There were dark circles under his eyes, but they seemed to be the bruised sort that were always there.

‘Agent Ricardo Goldsworth?’

‘Ricky.’

‘Right. I’m Detective Charles Tinsley. Private detective hired by the victim’s father...’ He trailed off as Ricky yawned in his face, showing a big mouth and pearly-white teeth. ‘Right. Nice set of tonsils you have there.’

‘Sorry,’ was the drawled response. ‘Jetlag. Eight hour flight. Haven’t slept.’

Tinsley tried a tight smile and extended a hand. Ricky got to his feet to shake it. He was short, perhaps five-seven or five-eight, and he had the stinking attitude to match. His black eyes crawled over Tinsley’s body, frisking his waist and hips and turning his pockets inside-out on the way down. Tinsley dropped the hand promptly, resisting the urge to wipe his own clean on his trousers.

‘You’re the one who found the body, right?’ said Ricky, sitting back down again, tucking the heels of his shoes onto the footrest of the stool. ‘It must have been a shock.’

Tinsley invited himself to sit, keeping one foot on the floor. ‘Yeah, well. Wasn’t my first rodeo.’

Ricky grinned, the teeth a bit too plentiful and the friendliness a bit too lacking. He dropped it just as quickly as he picked it up. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you know.’

Tinsley eyed the bar. ‘I’m sure we could find someone to pull us a pint first. Always easier to chat over a drink.’

‘I don’t drink on the job. And you won’t be either.’

Tinsley raised his eyebrows at this. ‘Oh, I won’t be, no?’

‘No. Coffees will do. If we’re here for long enough. I want to get started.’

Tinsley eyed him; he was raring to go, barely able to stay still on his seat, his sleepless eyes unable to settle. ‘Right. What do you want to know.’

‘Let’s start with why Mr Murphy-Jones hired you.’

'I’ve done business for the family before. Their issues are vast and plentiful. I reap a new harvest each year.’ Ricky didn’t smile, so Tinsley smiled on his behalf and continued. ‘He hired me this time because he believed his daughter had run away.'

'He didn't think to contact Missing Persons, no?'

'No, because he didn't think she was missing. He thought she ran away. Keep up. Anyway, he didn't want to get the law involved in an issue he believed to be more private and secure than it was. I traced her here, and I-'

'You traced her?’ interrupted Ricky. ‘So she did run away? Left a trail?'

'Originally, sure. She ran away.'

'Hm.' Ricky rolled his pen across his lips before sitting back. 'Well, wrap it up, would you. I don't need to hear about your toddle around the back-ass of nowhere.'

Tinsley stared at him. When he continued, his voice was tinny. 'I found her body in the water at the front of Powerscourt House. Pockets full of stones.' He picked at a small splinter on the table, working it out of the wood with his nail. 'Not a fan of the rural countryside, no, agent? Pity. There's a lot of it around here.'

'Yeah. Smells like it often enough.’

‘Not much to be done on that aspect.’

‘Are you from around here?’

‘No. I'm from the city.'

Ricky raised both hands in quotation marks and repeated, 'City.'

Tinsley pushed his tongue into his cheek, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs. He snapped his lighter open and shut a few times. All of his acidic rebuttals remained in his mouth, where they left a sour taste.

Ricky got to his feet, moving over to the window and pushing it open before lighting a cigarette. He stood with his elbow on the sill, his legs crossed at the ankles. Tinsley's knee bounced; he was craving a cigarette too, but he didn't want to get within five foot of the guy.

'We don't smoke inside here,' he said.

'We don't smoke inside where I'm from either,' said Ricky, his eyes glittering with malice through the haze of smoke.

Tinsley looked him over. Then he laughed sharply and lit his own cigarette where he sat. He used the empty coffee cup on the table as an ashtray. 'A lawbreaking FBI agent. You're straight out of the movies, aren't you.'

'And what about you? The suave private detective, witty and handsome to boot. Getting a bit long in the tooth though, aren't you?'

Tinsley looked at him, keeping his face neutral despite the fact he was very much insulted. 'I'm a few years off forty yet.'

'And when did you start?'

'Mid-twenties, maybe. You?'

'Similar. Early twenties.'

'Well you're still a spring chicken, by the look of things.'

Ricky grinned, that quick baring of white teeth. 'By the look of things. Just because I'm not getting grey like you?'

'Oh, these?' said Tinsley, smoothing back the patches of grey at his temples and raising his eyebrows. 'These are my racing stripes. I worked hard for them, I’ll have you know.'

'Ha.' Ricky turned his head away, pressing his forehead to the window as he watched the rain trickle down the other side of the glass. 'This place is fucking miserable. Does the sun ever shine?'

'Few days a year, maybe. Enough to make the grass green.' Tinsley stood up, taking the empty coffee cup to the window and setting it on the sill. 'Stop flicking ash onto the floor. You're disrespectful enough as it is.'

Ricky raised an eyebrow at his sudden stern tone. 'Disrespectful? What are you, my dad?'

'If I'd been your dad you'd have manners and a smile on your face in the presence of strangers.'

'Oh boy, sounds like I missed out big time.'

Tinsley dropped the end of his cigarette into the mug. He went back to his chair and picked up his coat, draping it over his arm. 'Lovely to meet you, agent. I’m sure I’ll see you upstairs.’ He spoke over his shoulder as he went for the door. ‘Hope you enjoy your stay on the Emerald Isle.'

'I've seen a lot more grey than emerald so far.'

'Get used to it.'

Tinsley shut the door behind him, and only then did his shoulders soften into a slump. He took a deep, deep breath, letting it out through his mouth. Then he clicked his tongue and muttered, 'Yanks.'

* * *

Powerscourt House was hardly a minute’s drive down the road.

‘I don’t have a car,’ announced Ricky when they had converged in the foyer.

‘I’ll take you,’ said Tinsley, lightly tossing his keys in his hand. ‘Unless you’d like to be chauffeured in the back of a Garda car for the thirty seconds that’s in it.’

Ricky sniffed, debating the offer, as if accepting a ride was an act of charity on his part. Then he nodded. Tinsley waited for the _thank you._ It didn’t come.

Banjo clapped his hands together and rubbed them off each other. ‘Right, lads. Let’s hit the road.’

The Gardaí moved on. Ricky looked at Tinsley, and Tinsley raised his arm to gesture half-heartedly towards the doors before letting it drop back to his side.

‘After you.’

It had started spitting rain. Ricky glared at the sky, pulling the hood of his jacket up against the offending raindrops.

‘Excuse the mess,’ said Tinsley when they had drawn close to his car. He pressed the button on his key, and the red Toyota beeped and clicked at him in return. ‘Wasn’t expecting a guest today.’

They sat into the car. Tinsley adjusted the rear view mirror, sparing a sidelong glance at Ricky beside him. Ricky threw one back. He wasn’t sure what to think of the private detective. He seemed incredibly laid-back, his eyes tired and sultry in the way the lids stayed heavy and blinked slowly, unbothered, the feathery lashes plentiful and soft in his otherwise rugged face. But his eyes, although gentle like a doe’s, were fully capable of cutting you to shreds when they wanted to.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Tinsley, starting the engine.

‘Tired.’

‘Fair enough.’

The radio switched itself back on with the engine. It was jarringly loud, making the two of them flinch in their seats. Tinsley lowered it right down with a somewhat embarrassed smile. He raised an eyebrow at Ricky.

‘You like Aslan?’

The question seemed to irritate Ricky. ‘What? The lion? From Narnia?’

‘No. The band.’

‘No. I don’t know them.’

‘They’re good.’

‘I’m sure they are.’

Tinsley guided his car back onto Eagle Valley, turning left after the Gardaí, instead of right, the way he came. ‘What type of music do you usually go for?’

‘I don’t know,’ was the clipped response. ‘Anything. All of it.’

Tinsley moved his jaw around, his eyes on the wet road ahead. His fingers tapped the wheel. He could hear every single droplet of water falling from every single leaf outside. The thirty-second drive stretched into twenty-four hours.

‘Do I annoy you or something?’ he eventually said.

A sharp sigh from the seat to his left. ‘I said I’m tired.’

‘Right, right. Eight hour flight and no sleep. I get it.’ He blew air out through his mouth in an attempt to let off some steam. ‘Do forgive me for trying to be polite. It was how my mother raised me.’

Powerscourt House reared its grey stone walls with its white sash windows. To the right was a wide swath of green grass and the golf course. The hills beyond were hidden behind a curtain of rain clouds.

 _They must be feeling shy,_ Banjo was probably saying in the car ahead. _Bad hair day, maybe._

‘Seems lonely,’ said Ricky, pushing the sun visor up so he could see the House all the way up to its parapets.

‘It’s usually open to tourists.’

‘Still.’

Directly to the left was the stone gateway that led into the gardens. Tinsley swerved his car towards it and yanked the handbrake on. Ricky was out the door before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop. By the time Tinsley got out on his own side, Ricky was over with the Gardaí, hands on his hips.

 _Busy little bee,_ thought Tinsley, locking the car. _Or more of a wasp, perhaps._

It was a windless day, but cold nonetheless. Tinsley zipped his own jacket up, a dark green Regatta one with fleecy lining. He slipped his hands into its pockets when he joined the small group. They seemed to be talking to the grizzled-looking groundskeeper, a man with the dirty overalls and wild white eyebrows of an old-timey sailor. Tinsley had met him a few days before, having reported the dead body in the water and alerted the House to its presence.

‘Peadar, how are you?’ said Tinsley as they drifted towards the gate.

‘Not bad, Tinsley, not bad. Yourself?’

‘Oh, you know. Plodding along.’

He nodded wisely. ‘Brought friends today, did you?’

‘I did indeed. The best of.’

Peadar glanced back over his boney shoulder. ‘What’s with the Yank?’

Tinsley exhaled sharply his nose in lieu of a laugh. ‘Beats me. Don’t know much about him yet. Apart from the fact he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.’

‘Ah. Not a nice man?’

‘Bit of an attitude on him, for sure.’

Peadar unlocked the gate, slipping the rusted padlock and chain off the iron bars. Ricky appeared at Tinsley’s arm.

‘Show me exactly where you found her. Exactly.’

‘I can’t show you two feet to the left, no?’

Once again, there was no laughter. They stared at each other. Tinsley looked away first. When Peadar had opened the gate Tinsley led the way, and Ricky followed closely. Banjo and Holly came behind. Peadar brought up the rear. 

It was a long and relatively steep walk down to the lake. The water looked black with the clouds above, black and haunted. The gravel underfoot was white and soft. The walkers left a chorus of crunching steps and rustling fabric in their wake.

‘It’s quiet.’ Ricky had gotten caught up in the scenery before them, the rolling hills and dark lines of evergreen pines. ‘Really quiet. And isolated.’

Tinsley looked at him over his shoulder. ‘You can say creepy. We won’t be insulted.’

‘The lad’s right,’ said Peadar from behind them. ‘It can get awful lonely down here. Lonely in a way nowhere else gets. Especially at night.’

Tinsley stopped on the path that ran around the lake. Large sections of this path were effectively covered by the branches of trees. To get into the water itself, one would have to descend the short but steep bank. 

He ducked under the yellow tape that had yet to be removed, holding his head at an angle and studying the water before taking a few steps to the left. Then he started down the bank, carefully, hands out either side for balance. He stopped near the water, deciding not to try his luck.

‘I found her here,’ he said, turning his head to squint up at the other four. Only Ricky had followed him under the tape. ‘It was her hair I noticed. Breaking the surface a little.’

Ricky made his own precarious way down the grassy bank. ‘And her pockets were full of stones, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So, suicide.’

‘Well, anyone can put stones in someone else’s pockets and push them into a body of water.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those who likes to make things more complicated than they are.’ Ricky stood close to the water, the toes of his shoes just on the edge. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but more often than not it really is as simple as it seems.’

Tinsley watched the back of his head, the glossy curls being lifted in the cold breeze. ‘You’re talking to me as if I’ve never solved a crime before.’

‘And have you?’ asked Ricky, the question accompanied by a confrontational toss of his hair as he turned around, one foot further down the bank than the other, like some pirate on the bow of his ship.

‘Yes. More than once. From start to finish. All on my lonesome.’

Ricky arched an eyebrow in wry amusement. ‘A lone wolf, hm? Don’t like being told what to do?’

‘Most people don’t like being told what to do.’

‘Most people are put on this earth to be told what to do.’

‘Right. Well I’m not one of them.’

‘Neither am I.’

‘That can’t be true.’ Tinsley returned to the dry, flat ground above them. ‘You would’ve had to follow orders at some point in your career, to get where you are.’

‘Maybe. But I just know when to take it on the chin and when to bite back.’

Tinsley snorted. There was a silence from beside him. The air grew hot, fast.

‘What was that?’

Tinsley pretended not to notice the anger in his tone. ‘Hm?’

‘You just laughed at me.’ Ricky stepped in front of him so that he couldn’t look anywhere else. ‘Well? Why did you laugh? Have something to say?’

‘Ha. You’re a right little gurrier.’

‘Don’t fucking laugh at me again,’ snapped Ricky, jabbing a finger dangerously close to Tinsley’s chest before turning away and storming back towards the House, with much muttering and cursing en route.

Tinsley took a deep breath, glancing about to make sure no one had witnessed the altercation. Then he kicked a few pebbles around and stretched out his stiff shoulders until it began to rain and he had no option but to go back up the white path towards the House.

‘Every single leaf between that lake and the hotel needs to be examined,’ Ricky was saying to the others. ‘There has to be something. A footprint, a hair. Anything.’

Tinsley stood at a safe distance and lit a cigarette. He strolled back and forth, scuffing the heels of his shoes off the ground. He was almost done with his cigarette by the time Ricky had wrapped up, and to his surprise, Ricky invited himself over.

‘How involved are you in this case?’ asked Ricky, taking a box of cigarettes from his own coat pocket. ‘Do you have a light?’

Tinsley nodded, handing the lighter over. ‘I’m as involved as Murphy-Jones wants me to be. No more, no less.’ He dropped his cigarette onto the damp gravel and crushed it under his heel. ‘You have a lift back to wherever you’re staying?’

‘No.’

‘Is it in Enniskerry?’

‘Yeah. Some country house or other.’

‘I know the one.’ He put his hands back in his pockets, looked towards the inky lake. ‘Well, I’m shacked up in the hotel. So you’ll have to find your own way back.’

Ricky stuck beside him as they walked back towards the gate and the cars that waited on the other side. ‘In the hotel? Nice for some.’

‘What can I say? The family’s loaded. And the only thing they like more than money is a guy who can solve all their problems for them.’

Ricky drew on his cigarette; he held it strangely, between his thumb and two fingers. ‘How did you trace her here anyway?’

‘Her bank, mainly. She took out a wad of cash in Enniskerry and I lost her for a bit after that. Then she used her card here to pay for the hotel room. For three days, I might add. Not cheap. So I drove myself up here - no helicopter for little ol' me - and had a wander about, and found her. I was hoping she’d moved on again but… unfortunately not.’

Ricky narrowed his eyes at him. ‘Should you even have access to her bank accounts?’

Tinsley paused, wondering if he should bother lying. He decided that, this time, it wasn’t worth the effort. ‘Not usually. But her dad is a banker and coughed up a few statements for me. Sure you know yourself.’

‘Why does that mean? _I know myself._ I don’t get it. You're not the first person to say it to me.’

Tinsley scratched at the back of his head. ‘Ah. I suppose it means, _you get it._ Whatever. Really what it means is _I’m not bothered to explain the finer details and you can make a guess by yourself.’_

Ricky’s eyes went flat, almost suspicious. ‘That’s stupid.’

‘Hm. You’re going to be very popular here.’

‘I don’t need to be popular. I have my authority whether or not people like me. You, on the other hand, probably make your living off having people like you.’

Tinsley squinted at him. Then he gave the tip of his nose a scratch and said, ‘Are you trying to analyse me or something? Isn’t that what you guys do?’

‘I’m just trying to open some dialogue.’

‘Open some- Right. Dialogue. I see. Well, I’m not enjoying it very much so I’m going to… close it.’

Ricky watched him go to his car, standing nearby. ‘You think you’re funny.’

‘I fancy myself a bit of a comedian, sure,’ replied Tinsley, holding his car door open. ‘You don’t agree?’

Ricky looked him over from head to toe, not for the first time. He never seemed to up straight, instead poised in a constant contrapposto, his weight on his left leg, his hands on his neat hips. ‘No. Not really.’

‘Ah. Shame. I’ll have to try extra hard tomorrow.’

‘Please don’t,’ replied Ricky around his cigarette.

Tinsley dealt him a quick wink before ducking into his car and closing the door.

Ricky went back towards the Gardaí, hearing the car driving off behind him. Banjo smiled at his face, although this smile was mainly hidden behind his moustache.

‘Getting on your wick, is he?’

‘Does that mean he’s getting on my nerves?' asked Ricky. 'Because yes.’

‘He can be a little aggravating,’ said Holly. ‘But he means well. And he’s bright. A valuable set of eyes.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ricky, tapping the ash from his cigarette. ‘We’ll see.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peadar is pronounced "padder", it's basically the Irish version of the name Peter.
> 
> Also yeah, our police are called the Gardaí (pronounced "gard-ee"), which means "guards", and the full title is An Garda Síochána, which means "guardians of the peace" (and they don't carry firearms, in case anyone wonders where the guns are in this story).


	2. Chapter 2

Ricky seemed much more alert the following morning. He came hopping down the stairs, his hand sliding along the banister. The FBI windbreaker didn’t make an appearance. Instead he wore a simple black peacoat over his light blue shirt and dark trousers. His shirt collar was open, and the skin on his neck and the top of his chest had the taut look of someone fit and active. In fact, the topic of a gymnasium was one of the first things he brought up.

'Do you guys have a gym back in town?' he asked, joining Banjo, Holly, and Tinsley at their chosen table in the Sugar Loaf Lounge.

The four of them sat beside the window. The cream tiles were polished to the extent they appeared like the surface of a milky pool, and the gold chandeliers were large yet dainty above them. A pot of tea had been brought for Banjo and three coffees for the others. They steamed in the slanting white light from outside.

'No,' said Banjo. 'But good honest work will keep you fit as a fiddle.'

'There's one in the hotel,' said Tinsley, tilting his chair back on its two legs, his arms hooked over the back of it with one hand holding the opposite wrist. 'But don't be expecting anything fancy or high-tech like you might have back home.'

The response was snooty. 'I expected nothing of the sort.'

Tinsley let his chair fall forwards with a thud, but he didn’t bite. Ricky was watching him like he was waiting for him to bite. Tinsley slid lower in his seat, knees bouncing, arms still linked around the back of it. He kept his teeth to himself, for now.

The increased alertness from Ricky was not a welcome fact for Tinsley; the underlying animosity Ricky had carted around with him the day before was now rearing its sharp-tongued head with increasing frequency. He was bossy and brash, his accent grating, and he turned his nose up at everything in sight, as if it all smelled vaguely unpleasant to him.

‘Must be getting a whiff of his own stinking attitude,’ said Tinsley to Banjo, out of the corner of his mouth.

Banjo and Holly had quickly come to the same conclusion; they had been landed with two men who didn’t know when or how to keep their mouths shut, and neither of them had any authority over either of the men in question.

‘Is that the Sugar Loaf?’ asked Ricky, squinting over his shoulder out the window. Mist still clung to the landscape with ghostly fingers. ‘It’s not much of a mountain. More of a hill, really.’

‘You have a lot of professions under your belt,’ said Tinsley, straightening back up and fetching his coffee. ‘FBI agent _and_ geologist? Wherever did you find the time?’

Ricky pressed his lips in a line. He seemed to enjoy moving his lips around; the bottom one was prone to pouting, and he would often bite on it or run his tongue across it in a slow sweep when he was deep in thought. ‘You shouldn’t even be here.’

‘Well, I won’t be for long. I have my own investigation to undertake.’

‘Oh yeah? And what does it involve?’

‘Heading to the Murphy-Jones mansion. Hopefully they’ll be cooking up lunch. They have this chef there, some Italian guy, and the food is to die for.’ He mimicked a chef’s kiss, his long pale fingers fanning out. ‘Mwah.’

Ricky took a mouthful of his coffee, watching him over the rim. ‘I want to come with you.’

Tinsley put his own cup down. It clinked against the saucer. ‘Well, I’ll have to run it past Michael first. But it shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘If it is a problem, I’ll get a warrant.’

‘Ha. No. This is not the type of family you want to make enemies of.’

Ricky picked up the complimentary biscuit that had come with his coffee and snapped it in half. He popped one half into his mouth. It was dry and crumbly like sawdust. He crushed it between his teeth with distaste and dropped the remaining half back onto the saucer. ‘I’m sure I’ve met their type before. The rich are the rich no matter where you go.’

‘You’re not getting a warrant or starting any of that crap,’ said Tinsley icily. ‘This family provides half of my business, so don’t start throwing your weight around just because you can.’

Ricky shrugged, sitting back. ‘I don’t give a fuck about your business. It might not have crossed your mind, but I want to go home as soon as possible, and ending this investigation is going to help me a hell of a lot in that regard. If I have to step on a few people’s toes on the way, then that’s what I’ll do.’

Banjo patted his mouth with a crisp napkin from the table. ‘Lads, lads. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. No point in talking about things that haven’t happened yet, or might not even happen at all.’

Tinsley pushed his chair back, taking his phone from his front pocket. ‘I’ll give Michael a buzz now. See what he thinks.’

Holly was almost finished her coffee, far ahead of the rest of them. She didn't partake in such petty arguments. When she spoke, it was with purpose and it was for a reason. 'It's going to start tipping. Best we hit the road now before the clouds let loose.'

Banjo nodded and stood up, dusting biscuits crumbs off his considerable belly. 'Best we do.'

'Where are you guys going?' asked Ricky, standing up and taking his coat from the back of his chair.

'Hospital. Autopsy report.'

Tinsley returned to the table with a quiet anger. He picked up his coat and looked at Ricky.

'Michael said you're good to come.'

Ricky pushed his hair back off his face, giving his scalp a quick scratch. 'Cool. Alright.'

'Yeah.'

* * *

The house rolled into view, grand and stone, with a small fat turret on the side. The windows were numerous and mismatched, the leadlight square or diamond. A discordant house to reflect the family within.

The scent of flowers from the front garden almost knocked Ricky right back into Tinsley’s car. Sweet. Sickly sweet. Lilacs, rhododendrons, gardenias, honeysuckle. Early winter and they were hanging on, but soon their petals would be falling away, slowly at first, then all at once, to coat the grass in decay. 

The taste of rain was in the air. The dark, heavy clouds were so low he felt he could have reached out and plucked one from the rest.

‘Rain soon,’ commented Tinsley.

‘Is it ever not soon?’ muttered Ricky, lighting a cigarette to try and mask the scent of the flowers. They were giving him a dull headache.

‘Not really. What would the weather be like back home?’

‘Snow. Definitely snow.’

‘Aw. I love snow.’

Ricky snorted. ‘No you don’t. You just think you do.’

‘Let me have my dreams, will you? It never snows here.’

‘You should count yourself lucky.’

‘Christ, you’re a miserable sod.’

Tinsley led the way into the house, the front door of which had been left open for his arrival. The entrance hall was impressive. The staircase was wide and set along the left side of the space, the walls were covered in framed paintings and gilt mirrors. The floor was dark wood with a large Turkish rug covering most of it. A soft chaise lounge lay between two hall tables, each holding ceramic pots of baby's-breath, the source of the unpleasant undercurrent to the otherwise dusty smell in the air. 

Through the far doorway to a parlour. The right wall had three floor-to-ceiling glass double-doors, one of which was open onto an ivy-swallowed patio. The air that breezed in was cool and thunder-laden. All the lamps were on, glowing in different intensities through their varied shades; embroidered, fringed, stained glass. The chandelier was golden, holding four flower-shaped lights over the two couches and the long coffee table below.

The silence smothered. Not a sob nor a laugh could be heard. Not even a breath.

The back garden was as spectacular and crowded as the front. Such a sweet smell, Ricky couldn’t understand how anyone could bear to sit in it for any length of time; it was so strong it was poisonous. But clearly, people sat in it, as there was a set of cushioned chairs and a large wrought-iron table set on the patio. There was a China teapot and teacups, half a cake on a cake stand, and three plates, two of which were empty. The third plate was in the hands of a man. Greying sandy-blonde hair. Light brown eyes, a large round nose. Broad-shouldered, heavyset. He wore a blue shirt, suspenders, and tan trousers. He was looking at Tinsley, shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth.

‘Tinsley, how are you.’

Tinsley moved to the table and they shook hands warmly. ‘Good, Michael, good. Yourself?’

‘Ah, you know.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

Ricky looked from one to the other, confused but unwilling to show it. He couldn’t understand how these people managed to convey ideas to each other with little to no words. Their sentences stopped too early, sometimes only consisting of a _Yeah, well_ , and a shrug, to which the reply would be a nod and a _Yeah._

The first few raindrops dotted the patio, staining the grey stone black, sitting on the ivy leaves like smooth emeralds. Ricky could hear it pattering against the flowers and trees, gentle, gentle.

‘Michael, this is Agent Goldsworth. Came in from Chicago a few days ago.’

‘Have some cake,’ said Michael Murphy-Jones, gesturing at the mess of buttercream and crumbs. ‘My mother brought it over last night. She’s a good baker. There’s lemon or something in it.’

Ricky shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m good for now.’

‘I’ll have his,’ said Tinsley with a grin, taking a napkin from the small stack on the table and using the knife to cut a slice. It was light and fluffy, the buttercream smooth.

‘Good, right?’ said Murphy-Jones, placing his own empty plate down.

Tinsley swallowed his mouthful before replying. 'Yeah, lovely. Here, Ricky, you’re missing out. Forget your fitness regime for one day and have a bit of fun.’

‘I’m good. I don’t really like cake much anyway.’

‘I told you,’ said Tinsley, looking at Murphy-Jones again. ‘He’s a freak.’

They made their way through their respective slices of cake, breaking it apart bite by bite with the tips of their spoons. The rattling of a tray made Ricky turn to face the patio doors again. The housekeeper stood in the doorway. Three cups of coffee sat steaming on the tray she held, along with a small plate of buttery shortbreads.

Murphy-Jones stood up, showing himself to be a large man, almost as tall as Tinsley himself, and much broader. ‘Come inside. It’s starting to rain.’

Tinsley placed his buttercream-stained napkin on the table, using his spoon to keep it from drifting away in the breeze. Then he followed Murphy-Jones back inside, and Ricky followed behind. The housekeeper set the tray down and closed the double-doors, pushing the latches back into place. Suddenly, silence. Deep and heavy. Inhale too much and you’d drown in it.

Murphy-Jones sat on one of the rose-pink couches. ‘Have your coffees.’

‘Ah, I’m coffee-ed out,’ said Tinsley, patting his stomach.

Ricky sat and picked up one of the cups. He took a mouthful. Rich, fragrant, with an almost caramel undertone. ‘This is nice.’

‘St Helena. We get it in every month.’

If this was supposed to mean something, Ricky was unaware. He just assumed it was expensive.

Murphy-Jones took a cigar from his shirt pocket, along with a small blade. He gave the tip a swift nick. ‘Got a light?’

Tinsley reached into his trouser pocket, taking out his yellow Bic lighter and handing it over. Murphy-Jones held the tip of his cigar over the flame and rotated it slowly in the heat.

‘You smoke?’ he asked Ricky around the cigar. ‘Is smoking big in the States?’

‘Not like it is here,’ he said. ‘Every second person seems to smoke here.’

‘Eh,’ said Tinsley with a shrug. ‘There’s social smokers and then there’s smoker-smokers.’

Murphy-Jones sat down with a grunt. ‘Right. Might as well get to business, although I've nothing to say now that I haven't already told Banjo and the lads at the station.’

Ricky felt himself relax, finally back on familiar ground. He set his coffee aside and took out an A6 notebook and a pen from the pocket of his coat. ‘Okay. When was the last time you saw Alice?’

‘I hadn’t seen her in a few months. Maybe seven or eight. When she landed in she rang me to say she might be a few days late, as she had to see a friend. She said it was important.’

‘Important? Did she give any details about this friend?’

‘No, not a peep.’

‘Did she say where she was meeting them?’ asked Tinsley, chin in his hand. ‘Did she mention the hotel at all?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ask?’ Ricky noted the dark look Murphy-Jones threw at him, but pretended not to notice. ‘Were you not excited to see her after eight months of being apart? Did you ask when she might be done with her friend?’

Murphy-Jones muttered and grumbled. He looked at Tinsley, who shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, as if to say, I know, right?

‘Me and Alice - well, me and the children in general - are a little estranged. I don’t see them often. They contact me for money and not much else.’

‘Then why this spontaneous visit?’ probed Ricky, tapping his pen against his notebook. ‘Money?’

‘I didn’t exactly get the chance to find out, did I? But most likely yes. Money.’

‘The devil’s paper,’ muttered Tinsley, tilting his chair back.

‘Did she ask for money often?’

Another few mutters and grumbles. ‘Semi-regularly.’

‘Which is what? Monthly? Bi-monthly?’

Murphy-Jones looked at Tinsley with an expression that said, _Why did you bring this guy?_ Tinsley looked at Ricky with his mouth in a tight smile and his eyes wide, as if to say, _Do you mind not being a pain in the ass?_ Ricky looked at Murphy-Jones.

‘These are routine questions. I’m not trying to annoy you. I’m trying to help you.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sure.’ Murphy-Jones sucked on his cigar, letting the poisonous fumes leak out of the corners of his mouth. ‘It was probably near monthly. A couple of grand per transaction. My bank doesn’t allow transactions above five grand per day, so I’d just send around eleven or twelve over a few days.’

‘Eleven or twelve grand?’ repeated Tinsley, his eyebrows shooting up to flirt with the few locks of sandy hair that fell over his forehead. ‘Hefty amount.’

Ricky hadn’t looked away from Murphy-Jones. ‘So Alice got a monthly bank transfer and yet still felt the need to come over here and ask you for more?’

Murphy-Jones took his cigar from his mouth and smacked his lips once. ‘You think I’m lying?’

‘No. Not at all. I’m just trying to sort it out in my mind.’

‘I don’t know what her reasoning was.’

‘Anyway,’ interrupted Tinsley, straightening up in his seat and gripping his knees with his hands. ‘Her wanting money is just a theory. Nothing set in stone.’

‘Exactly,’ nodded Murphy-Jones.

Ricky sat back, eyeing Tinsley with disapproval.

It was only after they had left that Tinsley brought it up.

'Why did you look at me like that?'

Ricky led the way down the porch steps, pulling his grey gloves on. 'What?'

'Just a few minutes ago. You looked at me.' Tinsley mimicked the expression, eyes narrowed and jaw locked. 'Like this.'

Ricky didn't laugh. His eyes crawled over Tinsley's face. He had beautiful eyes, the irises as black as the pupils, but bright and shiny nonetheless. Tinsley cleared his throat and continued on towards the car. Footsteps followed.

'It wasn't a very nice look,' he said.

'You were putting answers in his mouth,' said Ricky, a lazy elaboration. 'I was interested in what he would have said for himself. Not what you had to say for him.'

'Why were you so interested anyway? Do you suspect him or something?'

'I thought he was acting odd.'

Tinsley threw him a withering look. 'What? Like a killer or something? You're already way ahead?'

'I'm just saying he didn't seem very mournful,' replied Ricky. The cold breeze had raised gooseflesh on the skin of his neck. 'And I don't appreciate your tone, by the way.'

'People grieve differently here than they probably do in America. We don't do dramatics. We get on with it.'

Ricky sniffed. 'That's just not healthy.'

Tinsley kicked at the ground and suppressed a curse. 'You're doing my head in. You really are.'

Ricky threw a gloved hand towards the house. 'His daughter died and he's sitting around eating cake made by his mother. What sort of person even makes a cake at this time?'

'Well food is actually one of the most useful things you can give someone who's mourning.'

'Bullshit. You said he has a chef. And his mother should be mourning too. The whole thing is weird.'

Tinsley raised his eyes to the sky before letting them fall back to Ricky's. 'I'm beginning to think you're more trouble than you're worth.'

'Actually, speaking along those lines,' said Ricky in a tone that meant business. 'If I'm in the middle of talking to someone about something serious, don't interrupt me every five seconds with some stupid comment.'

'I'll remind you that you invited yourself on my investigation,' replied Tinsley, hands on his hips, his forest green jacket drawn back either side of his narrow waist. 'So sorry I didn't let you commandeer it entirely.'

'I can commandeer what I have to, because I'm above you.'

Tinsley stuck his hand out towards him, as if calming a skittish horse. 'No, no, hold it. We're completely separate entities.'

'No, you can't get in the way of my investigation,' persisted Ricky, his face that of someone who had never budged in their life and wasn't going to start now. 'It's obstruction of the law.'

'Yeah, right. Sure.'

'It is. And you're not even a detective. Technically, you're just a citizen.' Ricky sat himself on the bonnet of the car and lit a cigarette. 'But people do refer to you as “detective”. Why's that?'

'A sign of respect.' The lack of humour on Tinsley's face was unnerving in its unfamiliarity. 'So I'd understand if you don't quite get it.'

Ricky gave him a sweeping once-over, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly. 'Mm. No. I don't quite get it.'

'You will in time.'

Ricky tilted his head back, baring the lines of his throat, before letting it lower again. 'We should probably get this smoothed over now rather than later. I don't give a shit if you're older than me, wiser than me, or more experienced than me. I'm your superior. You do what I say. And you do it when I tell you to do it.'

Tinsley's face didn't even twitch. When he spoke he enunciated each word, crisp and sharp. 'You aren't shit to me.'

Colour rushed to Ricky’s face, pooling high in his cheeks. His black eyes glittered madly. It was a pretty sight. Tinsley was certain he had a temper as dazzling as the sun on a clear summer day, and hot enough to match.

‘You like causing trouble, don’t you,’ said Ricky when he was somewhat in control of himself again. 'You goddamn love it.'

‘I’m not causing trouble. The truth is you have no authority over me. I won't allow you to. And that’s just how it's going to be, pal. So suck it up.’

‘Right,’ muttered Ricky around his cigarette. ‘Right. We'll see how that goes.’

Tinsley arched an eyebrow. ‘Ever heard of Little Man Syndrome?’

‘Yeah. I got diagnosed at fifteen. It’s chronic.’

A smile slipped onto Tinsley’s face. He had a handsome smile, with just a hint of mischief to it. ‘You can be funny when you want to be.’

‘I know.’ Ricky studied the house again, waiting for a ghostly face to appear in one of the many murky windows. ‘I’m hungry. Where’s good to eat?’

‘Hm. There’s Poppies. Can be a bit hectic on the weekends but should be alright now. Does good lunches.’ Tinsley sniffed and rubbed at his pointed nose. ‘I’m not much hungry myself, but I’ll join you for the company.’

Ricky raised his head and looked at him for a breath before speaking. ‘I don’t mind eating by myself. If you have somewhere else to be.’

‘Not really. This was my plan for the morning, anyway. I need to figure out what to do next.’

‘You go with the flow, do you?’

‘Wherever the wind takes me.’

Ricky laughed, his head ducked to watch the smouldering tip of his cigarette. ‘You’re far too smooth.’

Tinsley kicked the front tyre of his car once or twice, satisfied with the pressure. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning nothing, really. I’ve just always had a problem trusting people who always know what to say.’

‘I never know what to say. Hence the reason I talk so much gibberish.’

‘Mm.’ Ricky snapped his cigarette aside. ‘Right. Let’s eat.’

They opened their respective doors, avoiding each other's eyes across the roof.

‘You might as well get insured on this banger by now,’ said Tinsley when they sat into it.

Ricky snapped on his seatbelt. ‘I’ll organize a rental when I get the chance.’

‘There’s no rush.’ Tinsley reversed in a sharp curve, his hand on the back of Ricky’s seat. ‘You can DJ if you want.’

‘Does this car have bluetooth?’

‘Does this car look like it has bluetooth? There’s CDs in the back. Ancient relics from times long past.’

Ricky reached behind and got the cases, flipping through them one by one. ‘I don’t know any of these.’ A pink cover caught his eye; Wild is the Wind. ‘Oh, hey, Nina Simone?’

‘What? You think we don’t know about Nina Simone here?’

Ricky shrugged, tipping the case open and prying the disc from it. ‘I don’t know. Maybe? I mean, you have CDs. And your car is a piece of shit.’

‘It gets me where I need to go and keeps me dry when it rains. What more does a man need?’

‘Just be careful going over any potholes,’ muttered Ricky, sliding the CD into the player. ‘Don’t want it to fall apart around us.’

‘You talk a lot of smack for someone without a car.’

‘Whatever.’

Tinsley wasn’t fond of this expression. _Whatever,_ with a toss of dark hair. _Whatever,_ with a roll of dark eyes. _Whatever,_ a slight curl of his lip, a slight raise of an eyebrow. _Whatever. You’re not worth my time. I’ve hardly even registered what you just said to me._

The air in the car was suddenly stifling. Tinsley cracked a window despite the fact he was well aware the heat was coming from nowhere but inside himself.

Poppies was a relatively small café that faced onto the Square. Its facade was painted a rich burgundy and the lettering was simple and gold. There were steel chairs sat outside, the type that scalded in the summer and stung in the winter. The copper roof of the clocktower in the middle of the Square looked slick and mildewed in the rain, and the tarmac sounded sticky under the car’s tyres as Tinsley parked out the front of the café.

Ricky ordered two poached eggs on brown bread, along with a coffee. Tinsley gestured at the waitress to make it two coffees. She delivered their order to the kitchens before dropping a jug of lemon water and two glasses on their table. Then she went to serve another table, an elderly couple who looked like they had grown from the very floorboards beneath their feet.

Ricky filled his glass, and at a nod from Tinsley, filled the other too. ‘How did you get to know the Murphy-Jones family?’

‘Ah. Michael hired me yonks ago. He had a first wife who drained his bank account when he filed for divorce. Tried to pull a fast one. Had a one-way ticket to Malta, this tiny little, uh, archipelago just below Sicily and above the tip of North Africa. A haven, by all means. Nice little Irish pub on St Julian’s Bay. The Dubliner. Fine as.’

Ricky drew his bottom lip into his mouth, squinting at him. ‘You go on vacation to an island and choose to go to an Irish pub anyway? Might as well just stay home.’

‘Nah. You don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘Did she ever make it? The wife?’

‘No. She didn’t get past Terminal 2.’ Tinsley laughed, hooking his arm over the back of his chair and tilting it back on two legs. It was a habit he seemed to have, as if he didn’t take up enough room already; he was a big man, an easy six-five, with the broad shoulders and long limbs to match. ‘Cheeky wagon booked with Aer Lingus and everything. Living the high life off the bat.’

The waitress came around with the coffees and set them down, along with a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar packets. Ricky added two packets to his coffee, along with a generous splash of milk.

‘But you found her?’

‘Oh I found her alright.’ Tinsley tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nothing gets past me.’

Ricky gave him a dry look before continuing. ‘So Michael has a history of money problems.’

‘I suppose.’

‘How many children does he have?’

‘Three daughters. Two, now. Margaret and Danielle.’

‘And he sends them all money every month? I’m surprised he gives it.’

‘You know, me too,’ said Tinsley, his voice airy with thought. ‘I’ve always wanted to ask, but never found the right time.’

Ricky spied the waitress come out of the kitchen with his lunch on a tray. When she dropped it off he smiled and said thank you. Tinsley raised his eyebrows in feigned-shock.

'Oh, so she gets a smile and a thank you, does she? The hell am I doing wrong?'

Ricky glanced at him from under his brows, a look he wielded frequently. It was one that baffled Tinsley: he hadn't a clue how to begin deciphering it. Was it threatening? Was it humorous? Was it sarcastic or stern? Was it even supposed to mean anything, or was it supposed to mean everything?

Ricky started buttering his bread. 'Maybe I'll smile at you when you actually make a joke that's funny.'

'Ah shut up. I know I'm funny.'

Tinsley looked out the window. He could see Ricky's reflection in the glass, his perfect profile with its straight nose and sharp jaw, like some marmoreal carving. Tinsley tried his best to look through it to the wet street beyond.

'You're staying over there?' he asked, nodding towards the front of the Powerscourt Arms Country House across the Square. 'It's not bad, isn't it not?'

Ricky shrugged, cutting into the yolk of his second egg. It poured bright and yellow. 'It's a place to sleep.'

Tinsley let out a weary sigh. 'Honestly. It's blood from a stone with you.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song is big energy for their relationship in this 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/track/69NExquLGvLHGyb3yj26DH?si=MBjWEvtYRVy96_KN-Cv6_w&utm_source=copy-link


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for all those who liked Marzia in acedia, Margo is basically the same character but renamed so I don't get confused lol

Michael Murphy-Jones had three wives over twenty years.

The first he had divorced, and she had attempted to flee with his money, but he had sicced Tinsley on her, and she hadn’t made it past Terminal 2. This wife had given him Danielle, his eldest, his angriest. She was twenty-four years of age. She more-or-less resembled him, in her mannerisms and build, and in her interests too; vintage cars and their maintenance. This resemblance wasn’t a welcome reality for her, but she put her head down and got on with it, as she had learned to do from a young age.

His second wife had died after suffering from a severe allergic reaction when no one else was around. She was found dead in the dining room, already in rigor mortis. This wife had given him Alice. Alice had reached twenty before her untimely death. A wife and a daughter, gone within five years of each other. He wondered if their bloodline had simply been seeped in death.

His third wife had given him Margo. Margo was seventeen. She took after her mother; dark-haired and pale, dainty like a porcelain doll, with the big eyes and red mouth to match. She was rarely present in conversations, and enjoyed being active at night; he would often hear her footsteps padding along the corridors as she wandered around with no particular goal in mind.

‘You should tell her to knock it off,’ said Murphy-Jones to his wife one night. ‘It freaks me out.’

‘You tell her. She’s your daughter too.’

Three daughters from three different women, each as different as night from day. Only one thing united them; their general dislike of their father. But it was treacherous ground they walked upon. They had grown used to their affluent lifestyle, and the prospect of a job was nothing short of a threat to them. Because of this they orbited around their father, staying close enough to profit off his wealth, but distant enough to make it clear they wanted nothing more to do with him than that.

They sat in their dark living room, father and mother and two daughters. The heavy curtains were drawn on all five windows, and no one was bothered to switch on the lamps.  _ Blue Planet II  _ was on the television. It was surprising, how comfortable one could grow in darkness, as long as they were focused on a patch of light.

‘I like Attenborough,’ said Fidelma Murphy-Jones, accepting the whiskey handed to her by Danielle in passing. ‘Great narrator.’

‘Who doesn’t,’ replied Danielle flatly. She sat on the armchair near the window, a plush old thing that smelled like dust. Its fabric was beginning to wear thin from years of use, and it had gone bald in places.

Margo didn’t tune into their conversation. She was tucked up on the corner of the couch, stirring honey into her red berry tea. She adored nature programmes. She just wished everyone else would shut up so she could focus properly.

There was currently a group of false killer whales making their way through the murky blue ocean. They were chasing down bottlenose dolphins, having heard their clicks and whistles from afar. The music was growing urgent and fast.

‘Are they going to scrap?’ asked Danielle, one booted foot on the purple poof in front of her.

‘Seems like it,’ said Michael Murphy-Jones.

The whales reached the dolphins, but the music fell away and nothing happened. Attenborough talked about interspecies friendships and how the false killer whales and the dolphins were believed to be capable of communication. The creatures swam onward, content.

‘Well that was a let-down,’ muttered Murphy-Jones, tapping the thick ash from his cigar into the jade ashtray near his hand. ‘Not a single drop of blood.’

Fidelma agreed. She took a considerable mouthful of her drink. ‘Nature programmes are meant to be full of violence. Who wants to see friendship?’

She was half-joking.

Margo didn’t agree nor disagree. She was too busy watching the walruses now, how the mother walrus would hold the tired baby in her flippers to keep its head above the water while they looked for a patch of ice to rest upon.

She wished she was alone so she could weep in peace. She ducked her head and stirred her tea some more, yet to take a sip.

‘The back of your neck is so pale, it’s positively glowing,’ commented Fidelma, reaching over to place some of Margo’s long dark hair over the nape of her neck. ‘There. That’s better.’

Margo wanted to ask her mother why she wouldn’t ask if anything was wrong, but she already knew the answer; Fidelma didn’t care. Margo was the price she had to pay in order to solidify her marriage to Michael and get a card to his bank account. The amount of actual mothering Fidelma had done was questionable. The children had had four nannies growing up.

Margo looked at Danielle to see if she was looking back. She wasn’t, but her neck was stiff and her fingertips tapped her glass. Margo thought Danielle tried too hard not to care. It didn’t come to her naturally. She had to try and try and try.

Sometimes Danielle wondered if it was more painful trying not to care than it was to simply just care. It was like opening a wound over and over again just to pretend it didn’t hurt. But she continued staring at the television, and out of the corner of her eye, Margo continued staring at her.

It was rare the family gathered like this, but none were able to sleep. The wake was to take place tomorrow evening, and their doors would be open to the world. The low conversations, the sad glances, the pats upon the arm,  _ And how are you doing, hm?  _ Alice, laid out cold and still on the table in all her finery, in her emerald-green velvet dress, the one that touched her ankles. Margo was sure she would have preferred a simple pair of jeans and a jumper, but that wasn’t allowed, she was told. It was too casual. Too disrespectful. The emerald dress would be the one.

‘But Alice didn’t like that dress,’ protested Margo. Alice had bought it from a shop she loved in Kildare Village. She modelled it for Margo, twirling in the mirror, pulling it around her tummy with discontent. ‘She didn’t like how it sat on her. She said it made her look fat.’

‘Would you shut up and sit down?’ hissed Danielle, giving her a sharp nudge in the side. ‘This whole thing is tedious enough as it is.’

So Margo had shut up and sat down, her hands tucked between her knees and her head hanging. She always let her head hang when she felt stupid, as if the weight of stupidity in her brain was too heavy to lift on her fragile neck.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the wake. About Alice, eyes and mouth closed, her body cleaned and disinfected, her blood drained out of her and replaced with embalming fluids. A wax doll of herself. Her hands would be ice cold to touch; Margo remembered this from their grandfather’s wake when she was a child. She had thought she was being brave and mature, touching her grandfather’s sun-spotted hands, but the coldness had made her flinch.

It would be equally frightening to touch Alice’s hands, where they would be folded on her stomach, one tucked over the other. Candles would be placed at the head and foot of the table. It made it easier for the deceased to find their way through purgatory, so the tale went. The mirrors would be covered too.

_ It’s bad luck to leave them uncovered when there’s death around,  _ their granny said.  _ Awful bad luck. _

Their granny was obsessed with good luck and bad luck. She believed in all the superstitions to the point where they were a religion for her. She was terrified of bean sí’s and fetches. Margo had known all about bean sí’s, but fetches she had had to inquire about.

‘A fetch is an apparition of a loved one,’ explained her granny. ‘A loved one who is still alive. The fetch is their double. It means impending death for them.’

‘Come on, Ailish,’ Fidelma had said, looking up from her Sunday roast. ‘You can’t be telling a child all that. She’s hardly ten.’

‘You have to teach them young,’ replied Ailish, her nose in the air. ‘Make sure they’re aware.’

Margo looked in the mirror above the bathroom sink that night. Her reflection looked back.

_ Is that my fetch?  _ she had thought.  _ Am I going to die? _

But it wasn’t her who had died young. It was her sister. Margo felt a surge of jealousy in her chest. She attempted to drown it in a mouthful of lukewarm berry tea. It caught in her throat and made her cough. Fidelma placed a hand on her back, but didn’t pat it or speak a word. When Margo stopped coughing, the hand vanished.

‘What’s on after this?’ asked Danielle, shifting her hips to take her box of cigarettes from her pocket. ‘I’m not tired yet.’

Murphy-Jones pressed a button on the remote.  _ ‘One Born Every Minute.’ _

‘Ew. God no. Is there anything on Netflix?’

_ I want to talk about Alice,  _ Margo thought loudly.  _ I want to talk about Alice. _

‘Yes, stick on a thriller or something,’ said Fidelma, before yawning and slumping back on the couch. ‘Something to distract us from all this misery.’

‘Expensive misery,’ muttered Murphy-Jones, clicking through the options. ‘Here, look, they have  _ The Bourne Identity.’ _

‘Yes,’ said Margo, watching the frayed carpet beside her slippered foot. ‘Let’s watch two hours of Matt Damon beating the shit out of people on the night before Alice’s wake.’

She stood up and left the room. Her heart hammered in her chest despite the fact she tried her hardest to remain cool. Once she had closed the heavy wooden door she put her ear to it, just to hear what would be said. There was silence for a moment. Then she heard the sound of crashing waves and rumbling thunder coming from the television’s speakers. They were watching the movie.

She stepped back. Her shoulders felt weak. When she looked over one of them, her reflection stared back from the window, ghostly in the darkness of the garden outside. There were so many windows along this corridor. She walked quickly down it, and her reflection chased her all the way.

* * *

Ricky was waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. He seemed to be the only one waiting. Crossing the road was a free-for-all here. People walked out in front of approaching cars with nothing more than a wave to apologize for the inconvenience caused.

He was on his way to the Garda station. Alice’s autopsy results had turned up late last night; methanol and ethylene glycol in her bloodstream. Antifreeze. The investigation had been upped to a suspected premeditated murder. This was not welcome news for Ricky; he would be staying in this dark-skied country for another while yet.

The day was wet and blustery, and he had woken early due to the lack of noise from outside. Upon opening his eyes he had had that heart-stopping moment where he forgot where he was. No traffic outside, no beeping and honking. It was strange, he thought, how a sudden silence can be just as jarring as a sudden loud noise.

His room in the Powerscourt Arms was simple; a double bed, a wardrobe, a desk, a bathroom. The window gave him a spectacular view of the car park. Still, it was a nicer-looking car park than the one his apartment looked out on back home. There was more greenery, even if it was only provided by shrubs and weeds. There were a few wildflowers popping up in the far corner, blue and purple and pink. Some daffodils were shooting up too. He liked daffodils, how they meant the start of spring, but he liked snowdrops more, as they meant that winter was drawing to a close. There were plenty of the latter too, sitting in patches around the town and under the trees along Eagle Valley, but they would start shrinking soon.

There was no balcony for his room, which was a shame. Then again, he hadn’t exactly expected one. The building was old, apparently built in 1715. Older than the United States. Ricky suddenly felt very, very small and very, very young. 

So many places in Ireland elicited these feelings in him. Everywhere dated from some historical period. The Powerscourt House had been built in the 13th century. On the motorway, he saw a crumbling stone tower in the middle of a field, from a historical monastery. Even the local Garda station was ancient by his standards; it had a slate roof, chimneys either end, and windows upstairs and down with flower boxes on the sills. There was an iron railing around the front and the door was painted blue. He said it looked like a house. Holly informed him it had been built as one, in the 1800s.

It all made him feel miniscule and unimportant. He wasn’t sure how the people around here lived without being struck by awe at every turn.

He stopped into Poppies for a takeaway coffee. The woman behind the till gave him a sidelong look. He knew that they all knew he was the FBI agent, the American, the Yank. He knew they were dying to ask him questions about the investigation and the rumours surrounding it. But he also knew they wouldn’t ask him anything. They could be strange in that way; dying for answers yet not wanting to be thought of as nosy.

The woman steamed up milk for his cappuccino. He had a quick look around the café for any sign of Tinsley. There was a fifty-fifty chance that Tinsley would tag along with them today. He seemed to spend half his time undertaking his own investigation, following his own whims, and the other half of the time he followed them around and listened to their conversations, like a stray dog snatching up the scraps of a meal.

Ricky shook his head at himself. It wasn’t like that. They were all working towards the same conclusion, so the more communication, the better. But still, something about Tinsley’s attitude managed to get on his nerves. He was  _ too  _ cool,  _ too  _ charming,  _ too  _ witty. Ricky often remained quiet around him only because he knew he would be thoroughly defeated in a verbal sparring match. It involved much biting of his tongue, much swallowing of remarks, and Tinsley always looked at him as if he could read his mind, a little knowing smile on his face.

After a little confusion about the various unfamiliar coins in his hand, Ricky paid for his coffee and left.

A shabby red Toyota pulled into one of the spaces in front of the café. It was buzzing with the volume of the music inside. Tinsley turned off the engine and the silence settled back in again. He got out of the car and smiled.

‘Good morning, agent.’

Ricky nodded, but he didn’t stop for a chat. Tinsley watched him go, an elbow resting on the roof of his car, fingers tapping out a jaunty rhythm. He wasn’t too put-out. Ricky unsettled him, with his deep eyes and his deep silences, and the way he always seemed to know more than anyone else in any given situation.

Tinsley went into Poppies for his own coffee.

‘I always thought Americans were supposed to be loud,’ he said to the woman behind the counter as espresso hissed into a paper cup.

But he knew Ricky wasn’t like him. He didn’t need to be friendly in order to get by in life. He had his perfect face and his angel eyes. And his white teeth, whiter than white. American teeth.

‘A hottie, isn’t he?’ commented the woman behind the counter as she passed Tinsley’s coffee to him.

‘Yeah, sure. Hot-headed and hot-tempered to go with it.’

She frowned over her shoulder at him. ‘What? You don’t like him?’

‘I don’t know what to think of him, to be honest. But he isn’t mad on me. He had that look in his eyes when we first met, you know the one where someone just hates you off the bat?’ He grinned. ‘I recognized it because I get it so often.’

She laughed, clearing the spout of the milk frother. ‘You’re gas.’

He went out the door and turned right towards the Garda station, following the path Ricky had taken. He wanted to know if Banjo and Holly were going to Alice’s wake. The Murphy-Jones family was a big presence around town, so it was going to be busy regardless. He also wanted to know if they were going to re-do the interviews today; some staff, some guests, and the trad band that had been performing over the weekend Alice had arrived. Nothing suspicious had come up last time, but then again, they hadn’t been looking for anything.

He stopped outside the black iron railings of the station to have a quick smoke. Whether or not Banjo and Holly were going, he would probably have to go to Alice’s wake anyway; he had met her a few times over the years. She was the most normal of her siblings. The eldest was moody and unlikeable, and the youngest was distant and strange.

He heard the door of the station open. He glanced over his shoulder before turning back to face the road with a roll of his eyes.

Ricky’s footsteps were slow and scuffed, like he was kicking at the ground with each step. The spark of a lighter, a deep draw. Tinsley looked at him where he stood a few feet further down the railings, one hand in his trousers pocket, the other managing his cigarette. Ricky’s eyes slid towards him before sliding away just as quickly.

‘You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,’ said Tinsley, leaning back against the railings. They pressed into his shoulders. ‘It’s no skin off my back. Though I will admit, the curiosity about why you won’t is making me sick.’

Ricky cleared his throat. He tapped the heel of one shoe off the toe of the other. When he spoke, his voice was low. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to say to you.’

‘Huh. You know what to say to me when you’re in a bad mood.’

Ricky didn’t look at him. ‘Do you ever think that maybe you’re just not easy to talk to.’

This was a new take. Tinsley straightened up off the railings to face him more directly. ‘You don’t think I’m easy to talk to.’

A shrug, shoulders shifting under the crisp whiteness of his shirt. ‘You make it difficult.’

‘Christ. You sound like my dad.’ Tinsley flicked his cigarette aside with such force it went in a straight line into the gutter, where it fizzled out among the damp leaves. He rammed his hands into his jacket pockets and strode around Ricky, through the gate to the station. He paused at the door and turned back up the short path to speak over the little black arrows atop the railings. ‘Why do you think I’m not easy to talk to?’

Ricky held his gaze. He shrugged with one shoulder. ‘You make everything into a joke. Some things aren’t meant to be jokes.’

‘God forbid I have a sense of humour.’

‘That’s not all it is for you. You use it to keep people at a distance. I don’t like that.’

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to. He wanted to finish the end of his cigarette in peace, but it was quickly fizzling away to nothing in his fingers.

Tinsley’s eyes narrowed at him. ‘Well, go on.’

‘I don’t have anything to go on with.’

‘Yes you do. So say it. I can handle it. And unlike you, when I start a conversation I like to finish it.’

Ricky’s face didn’t change, but the muscles in his jaw moved. ‘...I know your type.’

Tinsley raised his eyebrows a little, as if to say,  _ And? _

‘Everyone likes you because you don’t show them who you really are,’ continued Ricky, taking a distracted hold of one of the railings, pressing his thumb against the pointed arrow at the top. ‘You adapt yourself to suit them. And you do it well. But what that means is your real self isn’t someone you want to show people.’

‘It’s really not that deep.’

‘Or your real self if someone you’re insecure about. You can handle criticism about this persona you put on around people, but you wouldn’t be able to handle criticism about who you actually are. So you hide it. You’re insecure. Most confident men are, underneath. You’re loud because otherwise you’re scared you’ll be forgotten.’

Tinsley’s face had gone still. There was neither a smile nor a frown to be found, but his eyes were angry behind his feathered lashes. One of these lashes had fallen loose, the single curved hair almost invisible among the smattering of freckles that sat high on his cheeks and trailed across the bridge of his pointed nose. His eyebrows were the darkest things on his face, Ricky noticed. They were a deep chestnut, despite the sandiness of his hair and the greys that had started to sprout at his temples. Ricky knew this was nothing unique. The hair follicles on a person’s head were simply different to those on a person’s face. Nothing was ever as unique as it first seemed.

‘You have been dying to do this shit to me since you first laid eyes on me,’ said Tinsley, his mouth moving the bare minimum. ‘Chomping at the bit. Frothing at the mouth.’

‘No I haven’t.’

‘Yes you have. And I don’t know what your problem with me is - I don’t know if  _ you  _ even know what it is - but you can keep it to your fucking self, alright?’ He made it a few steps towards the door before turning back again. ‘And if you’d rather me be a moody prick like you, than by all means, I’ll concede.’

Ricky’s eyes crawled over his face. Then he turned his head away, putting his cigarette back between his lips. He heard Tinsley scoff, and the subsequent sound of his angry footsteps against the ground. The door to the station opened and shut. There was silence for a moment, silence like Ricky had never known. No cars, no taxis, no trains and airplanes. Just the rustling of leaves in trees, crows cawing back and forth, and a cow mooing somewhere in the distance.

God, it was cold. It was cold here in a way that was different to the cold back home. It was wet, damp, it seeped into his bones no matter how many layers he wore. He could smell it in the air everywhere he went, the wetness of it all. The deep green fields and black tarmac always seemed to be weeping about a tragedy yet to come.

He took his phone from his pocket and sent a quick message to a friend.  _ This place sucks. I want to come home.  _ But she was most likely fast asleep, all those six hours behind him, so he put his phone back in his pocket and stubbed his cigarette out under his shoe and went back inside the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wake is basically an irish funeral tradition, i'll explain it more in the next chapter 👍


End file.
